


A Critical Christmas

by aspermoth



Category: That Guy with the Glasses
Genre: Christmas, Explicit Language, Gen, Humor, Potentially offensive humor, Secret Santa Christ
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-26
Updated: 2011-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-28 05:04:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspermoth/pseuds/aspermoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A typical Christmas with the Critic and his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Critical Christmas

"CHRISTMAAAAAAAAAAS!"

The Other Guy's eyes snapped open and he tumbled out of bed just in time to avoid getting a two-footed stomp to the chest from the Critic, who, in the absence of a brother to crush, quickly resorted to bouncing up and down on the bed like a kid on a trampoline, screaming the word 'Christmas' repeatedly at the top of lungs. The Other Guy rubbed a bruised elbow and rolled his eyes at his idiot brother.

"Dammit, Critic, how old are you?"

"Old enough to know better, young enough not to care!" the Critic replied with almost irritating exuberance. "CHRISTMAS, DAMMIT. GET UP."

"I'm up, I'm up. What about Christmas, anyway?"

The Critic stopped bouncing in a moment and stared down at the Other Guy as though he'd grown an extra head, then spoke to him very slowly and clearly, as though talking to somebody incredibly, indescribably stupid.

"It. Is. TODAY."

The Other Guy scratched his head and yawned, glancing around his room. Hadn't he locked the door last night? He was sure he'd pulled the bolt across. It looked like the Critic had popped it right off the wall.

"Oh yeah. So it is. Merry Christmas."

"MERRY CHRISTMAS!"

"Use your inside voice. What time is it, anyway?"

"Five-thirty. Why?"

"Why do you _think_?"

The Other Guy was trying to sound annoyed, but the big grin on his face was completely ruining the effect, he knew it, and he didn't care. It was traditional for them. The ridiculously early-wake-up – although the bed bouncing of doom was an innovation – and the banter were part of their Christmas pattern. The next step was breakfast.

The Other Guy scrambled to his feet and stretched.

"Come on, y'idiot. Let's see what Santa Christ left us."

The Critic bounced down from the bed with a crash that threatened to send him through the floor, an enormous grin on his face, and threw himself out of the door and towards the stairs. The Other Guy followed in hot pursuit.

What Santa Christ left them was always the same thing. He'd stopped giving them presents after the unfortunate events that took place in Molossia, but he still brought them something. A very special something. Something of which Santa Christ himself was incredibly fond.

They were waiting in the kitchen, sitting on the table, gently steaming: a colossal plate of fresh pancakes, surrounded by plates of bacon, fried eggs and hash browns and with a great big jug of real maple syrup.

The Critic whooped and punched the air; the Other Guy murmured "Yes!" to himself; and both dived at the table, snatching at pancakes and fillings, and stuffing great chunks into their mouths. They tended to eat stuff their faces at breakfast, have a light lunch, then get a nice big festive dinner. It was easier that way, and gave them more time to create something half-way edible for the main meal.

It wasn't that they were terrible cooks. Honest. They'd only nearly set the kitchen on fire once.

Or twice.

Three times.

... okay, maybe twelve.

Either way, breakfast was soon finished. The Critic wiped up the last drop of syrup with a chunk of pancake and the Other Guy munched on the last piece of bacon left on the plate with a soft whine of happiness.

"Damn that hit the spot," he sighed. "Whaddya want to do now?"

The Critic gave him another look, although this one was less "You've grown another head, what the fuck" and more "Seriously, did Mom drop you on your head as a baby?".

"Hello? _Presents_? HELLO?!"

The Critic grabbed his brother by the collar and all but dragged him out of the seat, showing a surprising amount of vim and vigour for somebody who was presumably about to spurt pancakes from his pores. The Other Guy made a strange noise somewhere between a squawk and a gurgle and attempting to catch his balance and prevent his idiot sibling from accidentally murdering him with his own garments.

"Geddoff!"

"PRESENTS!"

"Alright, alright, _alright_ , just GET OFF."

The Critic relented and sped off to their living room. The Other Guy rubbed his sore neck and groaned. Maybe he should start spiking his brother's coffee with Ritalin. The dumbs had too much energy for his own good. He ambled after the rapidly disappearing Critic, who appeared to be attempting to burrow under their tiny Christmas tree with all the rapacious energy of a mole on crack. He emerged moments later with a hastily taped-up gift bag – his present for the Other Guy – and a neatly wrapped box – the Other Guy's present for him.

The Other Guy had had the best idea for a present ever this year. He'd taken an empty DVD box, slipped a fake _Garbage Pail Kids_ cover inside it, then stuffed it with Garbage Pail Kid cards and a ten dollar bill. It was gonna be so _fucking funny_.

They opened the presents together, at exactly the same time, just like always.

The Critic had given him the usual: a bottle of Jägermeister (small, naturally) and some kind of novelty item dispensing candy (this year, a small plastic reindeer that pooped brown jelly beans). Still, at least it was a gift and it proved that the Critic had put the tiniest bit of effort in. And hey: poop jokes.

Then the Other Guy realised that there was a sound coming from the throat of the Critic that should not emerge from a human being, a sort of high-pitched whining shrieking noise that hurt his ears with its sheer level of horror. He winced and looked up to see his brother holding the box at arms' length, eyes bulging half-way out of his skull, mouth stretched and face contorted into grotesquery.

"Uh... Critic? Are you okay?"

Nothing. Just that sound. That horrible _sound_.

"Critic. Open the box, Critic."

… where in the _world_ did that knife come from?

Wait. _Knife_?!

"Critic!"

The Other Guy threw himself at the Critic and knocked the knife out of his hand. The Critic was flailing and shrieking and attempting to stab himself in the eyes, apparently. It seemed that he'd underestimated the negative response that _Garbage Pail Kids_ would elicit from his brother.

One awkward and mildly inconvenient struggle later, the Other Guy was sat on the Critic's back, restraining his arms and yelling at him to shut up, which – thank everything on Earth – he did, the screams subsiding to pathetic whimpers.

"Goddammit, Critic, it's not the actual movie! Open the box already!"

"… it's not the movie?"

"No! It's a gag gift! Stop trying to gouge your eyes out and open the box."

Tentatively, the Other Guy released his brother, and the Critic opened the box. Cards and a ten dollar bill. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Oh."

After the shock, it was necessary to get some sugar into the Critic and quickly, so the Other Guy dragged his brother back into the kitchen to get started on dinner. Sharp things were obviously out of the question and hot things tended to result in burns and incoherent swearing, so he left the Critic with the cookie dough to cut and eat (preferably more of the former and less of the latter) while he got on with maple-glazing the ham and chopping the vegetables.

They started out with enough cookie dough to feed the entirety of Canada. They ended up with two dozen cookies. It was still better than the year before.

They stopped about half-way through to eat a quick sandwich and watch a Christmas movie. The Critic was still in a state of extreme stress, so the Other Guy threw in _The Grinch_ to revitalise his criticising spirit, and then heartily regretted it when the Critic gave him severe ear-ache with all his moaning. And he did it in rhyme. _Again_.

Then they returned to the kitchen. Again, the Other Guy refused to let the Critic touch anything too hot or sharp, so instead, he was given the task of icing the cookies. They started off quite normal – simple Christmas trees with decorations and what-have-you – and ended up rather weird. Some even had decapitated heads on the,.

But finally – finally – the meal was ready: maple-syrup glazed ham (turkey was Thanksgiving) with roast potato, stuffing, carrots and Brussels sprouts. And nothing caught on fire or was destroyed or anything like that, which was a bit of a Christmas miracle in and of itself. And it all tasted pretty good too.

Well. What they could taste of it while eating as fast as humanly possible.

And stuffed like a pair of Thanksgiving turkeys, the two brothers collapsed in front of the television for the favourite Christmas evening tradition: the Christmas Movie, Candy and Cookie Marathon. They piled up all the marked-down Hallowe'en candy they'd been able to stagger home with between them with the plate of cookies decorated by the Critic and just watched movies all night. All the classics, of course: _The Nightmare Before Christmas_ , _Die Hard_ , _A Christmas Carol_ , all of them. And it wasn't until gone midnight that the two finally staggered up to bed.

The Other Guy snuggled down under his blankets, contemplating how he would have to fix the bolt on his door soon – not that it seemed to stop the Critic, anyway. And as his eyes closed, a final thought passed through his head:

 _This Christmas was fucking rad – hope next year is just as good_.


End file.
